


Old and Wise

by Doreentracy



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doreentracy/pseuds/Doreentracy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not done yet--Sam finally leaps home and finds that life has changed quite a bit after 25 years....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old and Wise

“Old & Wise”  
“Oh...when I’m old and wise. Bitter words mean little to me. Autumn winds will blow right through me. Someday, in the mists of time, when they ask you if you knew me, I’d smile and say you were a friend of mine.”

A time traveller with no sense of time. How many ‘years’ had it been since that first visit to that strange bartender and his crossroads of the world business? Twenty? More? As the last tingle of the blue light left him, he eased into this next leap. No shock, no strangeness. It had become like breathing, a simple in and out, gentle nudges in the correct direction, performing the change of the life when needed and then another soft embrace as he was eased onto the next life. Or a rest. Lately, in deference to his age, perhaps, he was given a rest, a sudden softness, a warm bed, a crackling fireplace and comfy chair complete with peace and quiet. Adequate pleasure, then, when he had his fill of gentle rhythms of normalcy, he would be propelled into another chaotic life, a tough assignment, as his friend Al the Bartender had told him would be his life after that last one gift he gave to another Albert, the friend who now did not guide him.

Looking up, Sam centered himself. It was cool as nights go, no lights, just a road beneath his feet. Bowl of sky above him, black velvet with twinkling crystals, the true brilliance of night with a New Moon, just stars. Pausing, he drank in the air and somehow a scent that reminded him of . . . Home. Sagebrush in the rain. It had rained recently, the air was alive with it. Dry air, scented with a sharp scent of the desert.

Pausing, he knelt and tightened the lace of the high top sneaker and rested, cocking his head upwards, marvelling in the sight of a night he had not beheld in so long. Quiet, dark, just the rustling of wind, stirring the sand at the edge of the road, in the moonscape beyond that. Desert. A bleak place, but not to Sam Beckett. Something alive to him, a sun that healed, cool nights, sharp with an almost snow-like crispness. Dare he allow himself those memories? It was all around him, reminding him of a place he’d willingly left to give himself to the grace of time and the lives of others.

His head bent, closing his eyes and allowing himself the comfort of a memory, Rarely he would give in to thoughts of what he’d left behind, this world, his friends, his Project that he had, at one time, thought was so important, and that man, that impossible man to whom he’d given all he had.

No. He mustn’t think of Al. Truly, he’d turned that part of him that loved his Admiral away so long ago. It had to be the desert. Straightening, he stretched his back and proceeded down the road. There was never any hesitation, Who or Whoever who guided him on the leaps now had a gentle way of letting him know in which direction to proceed, what people to go to, where he lived, what sustained him. Sometimes the meals were far and few between, or he was hurt by the ones he encountered, but in the end the goal of the Leap was assured and he would be swallowed by the blue light again.

It was so dark but somehow he knew the way, no cars, no signs, just a long, long paved road, the shoulder crunching under his feet as plodded along. Would this be a difficult leap, one that took months, or moments?

So quiet, his body moving, the silence beating against his ears. No? A car, sliding past him, quiet, modern. It gave him a guide to what year it could be as the lights splashed against the barren landscape and then, swallowed up by the dark, rounded a turn and was gone. Twenty-first century, surely. Usually there was a quick indication, at the beginning of a leap, that told him where he was, when he was. The shoes he wore, for example, were of a construct made for hard wear, an athletic shoe, but made for walking, a smooth extension of canvas and laces, simple, but streamlined.

Walking, a lovely night. Eventually, something would happen, or, just a pleasant outing, eventually followed by a difficult problem to solve. Often, Sam wondered what would happen if he simply sat down, stuck in one place and refuse to follow the cues given him? Funny thing, he had never done that, not in all the years alone. Without Al.

Without knowing why, his step quickened. That inner nudge was telling him to hurry. Hurry?

Gradually, the feeble glow of earthly lights grew brighter. Enough to see the world around him in a dim way. Desert trailing into darkness, and . . . a very high metal fence, whips of barbed wire strung across the top. Dreams . . . and shouts for him to stop.

Pinned to the ground, weapons pointed directly at his head, the finest tracing of red dots of light on the ground before his startled gaze. Someone fumbling against his back pocket, a place where he knew his wallet would reveal the id of the person he was on this leap. And that photo that aged as he aged. He was forty-two when this all started. To his reckoning he must be close to sixty, judging by the ever-changing photo.

The Bartender had once told him, on a break at the bar in the city on the edge of forever, he would age. He will die . . . someday.

“Impossible.”

The word brought him back to his present situation. Keep your head down, he thought. Don’t give them a reason to . . .

“Dr. Sam Beckett?”

Someone speaking a name he’d long grown away from sent a shock through the time travelers system. Strong hands lifted him to his feet, bright lights blinding his vision, making him wince against the glare.

Another moment he was being hustled into a car, cuffed, driven with speed past the metal gates, lit by glare of bluish street lights, Other than a few curious glances and a minor feeling of deja vu he had no idea what was happening. As usual, he was being ushered into his leap, the control wrested from his hands. Someone had him in His hand. That thought always comforted him, knowing that Someone was driving the Leaps, making it possible to fix a life, continue on as he had all these long years.

It seemed like forever he waited in an all white room. Another sense sharpened when he was brought into the complex, memory. “I need a mirror,” he whispered. Sometimes the only words he spoke on a leap were to himself. The strange/familiar room had no reflective surfaces. Who was he kidding? “It’s my Project,” he said. Resting his head on his hands he closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath of air, he waited. It was quiet; memories of other midnights formed in his mind. Working at his laptop, silence, someone, probably security, patrolling the corridors, their boots softly squeaking against the waxed tile. Or Al, preceded by the aroma of black coffee, rich, just the touch of sweetness in the hot brew as he sipped it.

Struggling with weariness, tired beyond any other feeling, sleep swept over him like a warm hand. It brushed his eyes closed, it lulled, and soothed. Heart beating slowed, could he trust he was home? But the Bartender had said he would never go home again, or had he? Was this just another place to rest? Comfort gleaned from a bare white room that echoed the souls that had inhabited it until Sam started leaping alone, with no host but himself.

Rich, deep sleep was snapped away as the door opened. A grey-haired woman entered, her face lined with those marks of age, but still showing a beauty she’d possessed in her earlier years. Yes, he thought. Beeks. That was her name. The staff psychiatrist. I hired her.

Gently, she touched him just under his chin, bringing his head up. No one had eyes like Dr. Sam Beckett, even this terribly tired husk of a man, a mere shadow of his former self. Skin and bones, silver hair past his shoulders, those brilliant hazel eyes that sparkled with life were dark and questioning. “Sam? Is it you?”

“I think so,” he managed. The words literally crawled from his throat, disbelief choking him. All these years he had never imagined he would see home again. He’d accepted that he was lost to his home, friends. family. Someone was easing the handcuffs from his wrists. Warm arms encircled him as Beeks drew him close. She was crying, he thought dimly,

“It can’t be,” I whispered. The woman holding me felt real. “How long?” I finally asked.

For a moment time paused. I saw the words in her eyes. Too long. “Twenty years,” she replied.

It was almost morning, Sam thought. They’d tried to feed him; he couldn’t eat a bite of the food. A brief questioning that got nowhere. The last twenty--did they say twenty?--years could not be put together in some order that would please them.

“Where were you?” Verbena asked. Questioning had been pointless; his answers totally inadequate. “Can you at least give us that?” Her face was half in shadow.. “Twenty years, Dr. Beckett. Al is going to ask these same questions. And your daughter.”

There was a tearing in my chest, like someone had knifed me. Not so long ago, someone had. Knifed me, that is. It wasn’t the first time I had died, or came close to death during those leaps alone. Yes, part of that was death, dying. I died many times, all went dark, but no light leading me to salvation. Just a terrible feeling I was dissolving into the blue light again, my next . . . assignment.

“Did you hear me, Sam?”

“Yes. Sammy Jo.” My throat closed and I bit back what could have been an embarassment. “There are tissues on the floor in front of you.” There was no sympathy in her voice. I’d worn her patience out.

“I haven’t said I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I . . I also was the one in control and I chose to continue. I’m sure that does not improve the case against me.” My throat hurt, reflected in the way I gritted out the words. Almost like a growl, not a voice, not the way I’d sounded when I was innocent, before these last years of trial. “And, as much as you won’t believe it, I must have finally known it was time to return because I’m here.” She flicked me a shrouded glance. She was a psychiatrist, one of the best. For her to express any strong emotions . . .

“And are you going to stay, Sam?” Her lips thinned, eyes meeting mine.

“I-Don’t-Know,” I snapped. My hands were wrapped together, just the glow of the wrist link they’d practically forced on me showing through my fingers where I clutched at it. Ziggy had yet to speak to me. Upon the news of my return they’d been met with dead silence, the very atmosphere in the Project growing chilled and damp. The link glowed green, in some other realities it would have meant a good thing. The brighter the colors, the richer the hue, the better things were. Green, blue, cool colors, bad news.

“In about five minutes you are going to not only be facing Al, but your daughter who lives with him and has taken up where his family failed. His own children chose to leave, bitter at his cold treatment of their mother.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Buster, he never laid a hand on Beth, she died his wife. Whatever you did to ‘fix’ things failed miserably. At least, from Al’s point of view, and what we’ve discussed privately, he never wanted a wife. He didn’t miss Beth. He ignored them. The past twenty years have been spent burning his candle at both ends trying to bring you back, preserving your project in any way he possibly can. If it wasn’t for Sammy Jo he would be alone in this place, just a ghost to hover over him.” Her gaze narrowed.

“Tell me this.” She stared accusingly at me. “Do you want to see Al?”

I’m sure she knew, from the look on my face, how much I wanted to see him again. It was only then that I realized tears were dripping down my face, staining the clean shirt she had given me, glowing damply from the wrist link as they fell there. “It was my duty, Doctor. I proved myself fit for this job by just being me.” Roughly wiping away the tears, more following them, I glanced out the window, some of the outdoor lights flickering on. “Did you expect me to turn my back on my duty? To do what I was capable of doing? The leaps you know were a picnic compared to what I’ve dealt with in the last...you say years, I say moments because there were so many. Am I overwhelmed? You bet I am.”

I hardly realized her touch had turned from firm to gentle, a frown of concern forming between her eyes.

“Do I want to see Al? As much as I need to breathe but I never dreamed I’d see him again, This was a one way trip, No amount of ‘I’m sorry’ is going to mend this.”

“Try it.”

I’ll wake up now, Sam thought. That voice, gruff, like ground glass over sand and yet, the most beautiful sound in the world. More than my mothers voice, Dad . . . Keep my eyes closed because if I open them the dream will end, the nightmare begins anew.

No. Please don’t touch me, don’t make it that real. I could not bear it to disappear again, another dream shattered. Suddenly the time traveler was very cold, shaking, even Beeks warm touch increasing his trembling.

No, that scent. Sharp, cigars, cologne, rich, expensive. A touch of deodrant soap, sweat. His eyes were still closed tight. There was a silence, that moment where I hoped the dream would go away, like it had so many times before.

“Sam.”

Don’t say my name. Please. Eyes clenched shut, Sam doubled over, falling from the cot to the floor. But someone caught him, warm arms caught him, held and holding. And he wept in those arms as a soft voice soothed him. Told Beeks to please go, leave them alone.

And I held him. Twenty years fell away, it just didn’t matter. Sam was so thin, his bones sharp in my arms, nothing to him. I brushed my hands over his spine, shoulders, sharp ridges of stone. He was weeping hard now, never saw this man break down since the last time I had seen him. Confused, hysterical, upset.

Like he was at that bar. That stupid stinking bar, the last place I saw him. My words I’d been damning myself for twenty years. Saying I’d get him out of this, get him home. I’d been carrying the weight of those words since then, a very long time. Eternity.  
You’re my heart, I thought, holding him so close. I will forgive you anything, Sam. My fingers laced through his long, soft hair. The tears were slowing. Reality setting in, maybe.

“I am never letting you go,” Al said, his arms wrapping securely around Sam’s trembling form. “Never. I forgive you everything, Sam. We start from scratch now, you hear me?”

All he could do was nod. The tears were easing, just a little.

“Al?”

I’d forgotten Beeks.

“Get him something, a blanket. I’m taking him home.”

She was not happy about this development. I think if I had come in and slugged this poor kid she would have accepted that. One thing I have learned in the years between then and now is to forgive. I swore to myself I would do all I could to bring him home and if he came on his own I would hold him close and never, ever let him go. I would believe in God again, a God that brought the one good thing in my life back to me. No conditions.

Beeks eyed me skeptically as I wrapped the soft blanket around his shoulders.

“I’m gonna take you home,” I said. Sam was still crying softly. “You have a home with me.” I crouched before him and tipped his head up by touching his chin. Eyes filled with tears, grimacing, just like a scared little kid.


End file.
